


The Werewolf in the Room

by Gere_Nuk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First War with Voldemort, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 13:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8286929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gere_Nuk/pseuds/Gere_Nuk
Summary: The First Wizarding War. Five members of the Order of the Phoenix consider the werewolf in the room.





	

**1\. Lily Potter**

After a fight, after a fatal fight, when we all got away but we know they didn't, the atmosphere in headquarters can be stifling. There's too much adrenalin at first, those who merely maimed trying to stave off the guilt of those that killed, everyone pouring drinks, speaking too loudly. It works usually, for a while. But for all Frank claims a whiskey helps with the shock, it also brings on the guilt. Perhaps that's why Frank does it. Get the guilt over with, so next time you can get back to the fight. James was awful after his first time, Sirius tried to front it out, and Marlene and I drank until we passed out. I thought it'd be Peter who'd be last of us to kill – he's hesitant, nervy, and to kill you have to mean it. But perhaps it's unsurprising – when you're scared and know that your opponent can out-duel you, you go for your strongest weapon. And Peter may be hesitant but he has good aim and an instinct for survival that we all need right now. And so in the end its Remus who's last. He seems… calm. He's been given a drink, but he's neither downed it nor rejected it, just taken a sip and sat quietly as Alice tells us what happened.

As much as possible we've all been paired with one of the aurors when out on anything other than a routine patrol. We're told this is so we're backed by a strong fighter, so we can hone our own duelling skills. But we know this reason is double edged. Because they are our best fighters they are also targets, and we don't have enough of them to risk losing two at once. Tonight Remus was out with Alice, scoping out a possible death eater safe house that turned out to be defended by people as well as spells. This is notable – guard duty surely suggests the house was important. But it's also a moot point now – the house vacated as soon as it was discovered. Alice is hardened to battle, but she says you never get used to killing at close quarters. She knocks back her drink and smiles weakly at Frank. It's a smile I've seen often recently, a reassurance for those you love.

Remus is also smiling reassuringly, but his is a reaction to Fabian, who takes a small step away from him as he rises from the table. The Order is a broadly tolerant group, but not everyone is able to supress reactions instilled in them since childhood. The Prewetts have been on a few patrols with Remus now though, and their unease is waning.

I move away from the kitchen, butterbeer in hand. Headquarters is cramped, and with others expected to arrive through the floo in the kitchen I decide the living room is a better place to sit and wait. Dorcas and Benjy are already there, writing reports, reading up on obscure spells. I drop onto the sofa, close my eyes. A few minutes later the sofa cushions sink as another body sits beside me. Remus raises his eyebrows, clinks his beer against mine.

"James out on patrol?"

I nod. It's a relatively safe route and he's with Sirius; they fight well together, and I tell myself not to worry. But they also get bored and though James swears they don't look for trouble it does have an uncanny way of finding them.

"Busy day?"

"Potions duty."

"And I thought my day was bad." I glare at him and he shrinks back a little. "I'm sorry. That was callous."

Dorcas and Benjy look up briefly in surprise. I lean my head back against the sofa. It bothers me more than I want to admit that Remus is so calm. When someone comes back from a mission agitated and stricken we do all we can to calm them. Remus is calm and I want so much for him to be shaken up, just a little. He took a life tonight. And no-matter how much they deserved it, they were family to someone. Christ, maybe someone here.

"What potions did you brew?" he asks softly, his lips tilted upwards in apology.

"Skele-gro, bruise-away, burn salve… the usual. Need anything?"

"Bruise-away will be useful in a couple of weeks."

We've never really discussed his lycanthropy. It was James who told me (eventually, and with Remus' permission), but other than a hug and a brief assurance that I didn't hate him, it was clear Remus didn't want to talk about it. The boys all allude to it though, jokes that are only funny because they say them, biting sarcasm if anyone hesitates when they see their name on the rota next to his. It's a strange thought but learning of Remus lycanthropy was one of the reasons I agreed to marry James. I love James of course, and he's matured so much in the past few years, but knowing what he did for a friend, what he continues to do out of love and loyalty, made me finally realise that he is, at heart, good. That even when we were teenagers and I hated him, the good was still there. Buried, but there.

Remus leans forward, dropping his empty bottle at his feet. Unlike his friends, I always liked him at school. He didn't always stop them when he should have, but he didn't take part in their bullying either. It's one of the reasons I find his lack of reaction tonight so disconcerting. It doesn't feel like him. But there's a lot I didn't know about Remus Lupin until quite recently I suppose. Even while sharing prefect duties with me it turns out he was pretty deeply involved in several large-scale pranks. A lack of ostentation creates a brilliant illusion of innocence.

Speaking of ostentation, a barking laugh sounds from the hallway, and Sirius barrels through the door, beer in hand. He throws himself on the arm of sofa, punching Remus in the shoulder in greeting. James follows behind, grinning at Peter who is blushing furiously, the front of his shirt dripping with beer, a foamy half-filled bottle in hand.

"Got you again Pete?" Remus asks, head hanging upside down over the back of the sofa. Sirius laughs raucously. "You're a child, Pads" says Remus.

"And you, Moony, are a killer." Sirius' smile doesn't abate but it starts to look forced. I can see the cogs whirring in James' mind, trying to settle on a way to reassure Remus that is not, in fact, needed. He hands him a beer.

"Spoke to Alice mate," he says finally, "sounds like you had no choice."

"I had a choice." Remus answers, and as he swigs at the beer he attempts to hide his smile.

Peter dries off his shirt, Dorcas and Benjy give up their work in favour of listening to James and Sirius make a tall story out of a dull patrol, and Remus sits quietly listening, his eyes sparking with laughter.

It occurs to me then that he's spent his life afraid of killing an innocent person. There is a certain irony that the person who is most afraid of killing someone is, in the end, the most prepared to kill. We are, all of us, making choices. The power within us to choose weighs heavily sometimes, but I look at Remus and know that not having that choice would be infinitely worse.

* * *

**2\. Alastor Moody**

He's agitated when I enter the interview room, but he's disciplined and waits silently while I set the wards. He's twenty years old and more competent at this than aurors with years of undercover training. I consider testing him, find out how long he'll wait for me to confirm we can't be overheard, but he's tense, probably hasn't slept all night, and the imminent full moon is putting him on edge.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Friends in the capture unit didn't fill you in?"

He speaks quietly, but I know anger when I hear it. And he's right; of course I know what happens when the Capture Unit gets wind of a pack, especially this close to the full moon. The WCU aren't known for subtlety; they send up red sparks all over Law Enforcement whenever they call in back up. They're not known for accuracy in their reports either, and the purple bruising across his cheek belies the so called peaceful raid.

"Anything to report?"

He might be angry, but it takes a lot to distract Lupin from the job in hand. He's been living as part of a pack for almost three months now, and every report has been clear and concise, and he's got a good sense of what looks innocuous but might be important. Today's report is no different, and the idiots at WCU are forgotten while he talks.

He's good, but he has the same flaw all spies have – a tendency to take themselves out of the story. My job now is to put him back in it. It's not all observation when you're undercover, it's participation too, and I need to know what he's participating in. He speaks smoothly, the lack of gaps in his speech hiding the gaps in his story. But he's mentioned some names more than others and one in particular stands out – his eye contact never wavers but it seems forced whenever he mentions her.

"Who's Tala?"

"One of the pack."

He changes the subject, wanting to know when he gets his wand back (when he's released), whether his possessions can be retained as evidence when no charges have been brought (he's a werewolf, so they can). He goes silent after that, but his fingers flex in annoyance.

"There's a postcard in my backpack for Pete. You'll take it for him?"

I nod distractedly. "You're gaining the pack's trust?"

"I think so."

He's being modest. His reports make it clear he's trusted – he couldn't know as much if he wasn't. Lupin is the type to fit in. He's observant, learns the dynamics before finding himself a space. In this pack he's found himself a space faster than I expected – but then he mentioned Tala too often, and it makes sense.

"Don't get in too deep with her lad, you hear me? She may be useful-"

Not many twenty year olds have the gall to try and cut me off with a look. But Lupin's eyes are hard and his jaw is locked and hell, in a few hours he could tear me limb from limb and his fists are twitching as if he would summon that strength now if he could. And then he takes a breath, his body relaxes, and the threat drains from him in a hollow laugh.

"Everyone's fucking useful, Moody." I let my fingers drift from my wand.

There's a few hours until he'll be taken to a containment cell and I consider taking him back down to holding where he'll wait with the rest of the pack. But the holding cells are tense restless places and an hour more with me won't raise suspicions, so I give him a break. A double life is hard to live, and an hour where he can be reminded that this is temporary, a pause in his reality, is important. Or so I think.

"Temporary," he says, "Ministry going to employ me once the war is over you reckon? Maybe I'll get a lease on a house, a season ticket to the Catapults?"

He's watching me intently. For a werewolf he's lived an unusual life, raised by his parents and allowed into school. The Order is another anomaly, a community of tolerance in a society with little to spare. He'll have known the reality of his future for years, but to be thrown into like this must have hit hard.

"WCU were rough this morning?"

"Well there were seven of us and only fifteen of them. And we were asleep and four of our group were kids, but Matthew is tall for a nine year old don't you think?"

I start to respond but he stands abruptly, his hands at his sides, empty palms facing towards me.

"You better land a few hexes before you take me back downstairs." He waits, his wiry frame braced for impact. When it doesn't come he speaks again, his tone matter-of-fact. "You've been 'questioning' me for almost two hours – if you don't want my cover blown I need to look like every other werewolf who's spent time in Ministry custody."

He's right of course, and when I lock him back in the holding cell his bruised cheek is bordered by a black eye and a split lip.

I don't see Lupin again in person for several weeks. I deliver his postcard to Pettigrew – a picture of chalky white cliffs on one side, the other blank but for the words 'it's just like at school here' – and watch in shocked approval as a few muttered words produce a roughly drawn map. It shows an encampment on the south coast, labelled dots tracking the movement of werewolves who come and go, a place of meeting and trading. Lupin's pack visit sporadically, and when late one night I spot the lettering of his name overlaid with another I hope that she reminds him of his humanity and not of his separation from it.

* * *

**3\. Marlene McKinnon**

Black is a mess. I suppose we should've expected him to drink too much today, we'd all seen him and Benjy getting closer. And lately a few weeks of closeness feels a lot longer, feels like a commitment of sorts, if not a commitment of your life – that we've all already signed away. Til death do us part, and what a fucking awful way to go. Poor sod, I always liked Benjy.

The wake is winding down now, just a few of us left at HQ. I was considering propping up the makeshift bar for a while but watching Black cry into his whiskey isn't a great advert for it, all things considered. I should probably go talk to him, but just as I think of it Lupin's there, glass of water in hand and a smile that looks as hideous as it does false. Not his fault of course, but until those scars heal some he's going to frighten anyone who looks on him.

Potter and Lily left a while ago to get the kid to sleep, and Pettigrew's been busy lately, so it's Lupin alone who gets Black's grief. Thing is, since he got back from the werewolves he's looked like he's got enough grief of his own. The new scars can't help. Spot a man in Diagon Alley with a patched cloak and tired eyes and you think maybe he's hit hard times, smoked a bit too much gillyweed perhaps. See the same man with six inch long parallel scars across his face and maybe you steer your broom a little wider. Must've heard some whispers as he's gone about his business lately. So much the worse when those whispers are true.

Still, once you know Lupin you don't think werewolf for long, or at least you begin to think that what you've heard is probably bollocks. I've known him for longer than I've known of his condition, and to be honest I wouldn't have believed it if Dumbledore hadn't sent him to live with a pack for much of the year. He brought back some good news too which was a nice change. Seems the werewolves we should be concerned about have remained in exile, and the packs here are glad to remain out of it. Mind you, Lupin doesn't seem that happy to be back, even accounting for the circumstances – Caradoc missing, Benjy dead. He's nudging the water towards Black but I can't help noticing that he's pulling what's left of the whiskey towards himself.

Lily always knew him better at school, them being partnered in potions and later as prefects. She's worried he's not dealing with grief very well or with guilt. In don't know that I agree. The guilt's useless so good on him for disregarding it, and we all deal differently with grief. Anyway, he's definitely quieter than he used to be, at least around those he's not as close to. Hiding how he's coping from his friends may not help him in the long term, but we're all guilty of that to some extent. Last time I spoke to Caradoc he knew he was being watched, yet when I asked how he was everything was 'fine'. Of course it wasn't, but you don't say it do you? Got to keep up morale somehow.

Black's come out of his slump and is now in animated grief – lots of pointing and hitting the table. It's easier to forget that Black is a head shorter than Lupin – he commands so much space. Mind you, while the other boys from school are now filling out, Lupin is thinner than ever. Months without proper food can't have helped, but he's still surprisingly strong and in a duel I think I'd rather partner with him than most of the other non-aurors among us. If you saw Black or Potter fight you think they'd be better than Lupin, but while they fight brilliantly together they're not very adaptable with a new partner. The Prewetts are the same – fight like they have one mind, but pair them with someone else and you worry they're still anticipating one another. That said, Potter's got better; fighting alongside Lily's made sure of that. Maybe if Benjy hadn't... well maybe Black would've got better too.

Now I've finished my drink I suppose I better help out, and I join Lupin and Black at the table. It seems Black has moved from grief to anger, and from Benjy to the war in general. He's pulled a hipflask from a pocket too, and Lupin's apparently given up trying to stop him, tilting his own glass for a top up. He nods in greeting but Black doesn't let up his rant for a proper hello.

"-doesn't look like we're winning does it mate? Even those of us left, look at the state of you for Merlin's sake, and you reckon they were on our side?"

Lupin sighs and I sense this isn't the first time he's answered such a question.

"I told you Pads, these were self inflicted."

Black scoffs into his drink, sloshing some whiskey over his fingers. "Nah, I know you - you have more self-control Moony."

"Not during the full moon. You know that. _Marlene_ knows that."

I don't know why I'm included in that, but at the stress on my name Black starts, his eyes struggling to focus.

"McKinnon. When'd you get here?"

"About seven whiskeys ago I should think."

He smiles wetly, holding his drink aloft. "To the eighth".

Black isn't conscious for long afterwards, slumping heavily against Lupin who supports his head as he stands, laying him out on the bench.

"Want a hand getting him home?"

He shakes his head, stretches his arms out. "I'll let him sleep it off here."

"Mind if I stay for another?"

He agrees and pours us both a measure from Black's discarded hipflask. I haven't had many one on one conversations with Lupin. At school he was always with his mates, all of them louder than he is. Perhaps that makes sense now – of course he wouldn't have wanted to draw attention to himself, the werewolf in the common room. At least it's paid off somewhat, a lifetime of training for a few months of spying. He pulls up a chair, runs a hand through across his face.

"Haven't had a haircut since you got back then?"

"Not yet, no. Think a tidy up will help?"

He looks at me straight on, the two scars cutting diagonally across his face, dividing the skin at his eyebrow, nose, cheek and lips. The scars are older than I thought, but then werewolf wounds heal slowly if they heal at all. Perhaps the longer hair is better, for now.

"How'd you get them?"

"Full moon," he shrugs, "it happens."

"Think you'd have more then, given the number of moons you've been through."

He shrugs, looks away. But I'm not one of his best mates, and he's not trying to protect me, so he meets my eyes again and sighs.

"I was in a ministry containment cell. When I've been locked up before I haven't had the scent of hundreds of humans just beyond some bars or a dozen werewolves in cages either side of me desperate for a hunt."

"And Black can't know that because?"

"Because he'd want to know why Moody or the Longbottoms didn't get me out. And then I'd have to tell him that Moody put me in there."

Realisation hits me before the frown is fully formed. "To protect your cover?"

"We can't be fighting amongst ourselves right now. And Pad – Sirius – is spoiling for a fight with just about anyone."

He's not wrong about that. We're losing fighters, informants, and allies daily. But he's not right either, not really, leaving Black aware of the lie but unaware of the truth.

* * *

**4\. Mundungus Fletcher**

I'm glad to find the new headquarters are bigger than the last, but there's not much in the way of comfort. It's a small old muggle school – two classrooms, tiny chairs, low desks. The bog is the worst – I 'aven't pissed in a urinal so low down since I were a nipper, and after a few drinks on an evening aiming that extra foot is a challenge I can tell you. Thankfully it's quiet 'ere tonight, so I don' have to worry about anyone being all sanctimonious about it – the fuss some of them make over a bit o' water.

But tonight the few who could make the meeting left early, so it's jus' me, Pete and a lovely bottle of scotch he's liberated from an uncle or some such relation. He's good for a drink is Pete, doesn't sup much himself but likes to share a new tipple, which makes him the perfect drinking partner in my book. When I get back to the classroom he's sorted out a couple o' chairs too, made them higher and added a couple of cushions. Should've done it for the meeting really, but everyone was in a rush and so we had our very serious weekly briefing while sitting wi' out knees around our ears. Thank Merlin Hagrid decided on standing - Lupin looked ridiculous enough, practically folded over he were. Pete hands me a glass and for a change his own measure is as healthy as my own.

"Good scotch is it?"

His uncle reckons so, and though I'll drink what's on offer most o' the time I can tell this is something special. He's a nice lad is Pete, shame Black isn't here too as he's a great laugh after a few. Think Potter would be too if it weren't for that woman o' his. Nice girl, but a step out of line – a line she draws and tells you nowt about – and she'll hex you into next week. Less sure about that Lupin. Problem with 'im is he holds his liquor better than you'd think and he's a bit too quiet at times to be good company – too intense. Maybe it's the werewolf thing. Certainly don't help matters. Those scars across his face look bloody awful too.

"Worrying to think there's a spy isn't it?" says Pete, kindly topping me up. He's right about that, sodding nightmare.

"Explains a lot don't it?" I says, "Caradoc and Benjy, and now the twins and Marlene too." The worst of it is we thought for a while that we we'd made mistakes, took the same route too many times, left wards too long without renewing them. Not that we blamed Caradoc and Benjy of course, but afterwards we thought Moody's drilling of constant bloody vigilance would help – and then Gideon and Fabian got ambushed and Marlene got killed at home and we realise that nothing will help when one of our number is selling us out.

"Wonder what price the bastard got for us?" I ask aloud. This scotch really is a good one, spicy and peaty; those taste descriptions are usually bloody nonsense, but I can definitely taste caramel in this. I'll have to write down the name, see if I can get a few bottles on the cheap.

"Price doesn't matter I don't think," says Pete. He's frowning now, looks a bit uncomfortable. "It's who's got the most to gain that's the concern."

"Fair point," I nod, thinking through the Order, who's still standing, who's got the least to lose, the most to gain. Thing is, there's not many I can think of, and for a second I wonder if this nice scotch is a way to smooth his path to an accusation. But jus' cos I sell most things I get my hands on don't mean I'd sell out the Order, and I'm just about to put this to him a bit forceful like when he surprises me.

"Remus is - I mean I don't think he'd - but when I heard..." he sighs a bit then, sips at his drink. "Ignore me" he says.

Difficult to do that though now he's mentioned it. Lupin spent months with them werewolves and came back to say they weren't planning nothing, that they were peaceful. But saying werewolves are peaceful while your face is all slashed up is like saying that bubotuber pus isn't too strong while covered in boils, so maybe he was turned.

"He don't seem happy to be back from the pack" I says to Peter, making is sound like I'm musing a bit. Don't want to be too forward – he might've brought it up but Lupin's his mate after all. He hesitates a bit, but I can see he wants to say something and I top up his glass for a little liquid encouragement.

"Moody said, well he didn't say exactly, I was helping him a bit, and I thought, we thought, he had a girlfriend."

He stammers and goes back on himself so much for a second I think he means Moody and I almost choke at the thought of her trying to cook him a nice dinner only for him to blast the plate to pieces. But no, he means Lupin, and though that's not as immediately funny it's still a strange thought – not sure what he has to offer a girl, but then if she's like him, someone he can have moonlit suppers with...

"He's always been quite secretive," Pete goes on, "had to be I suppose. But he hasn't even told James or Sirius about her. Doesn't talk about the pack at all really."

"Well, Dumbledore's orders int it?" I says. And that's true enough, we don't share more than we have to with more people than what needs to know. But it's also true that you tell your mates, have some drinks, get it off your chest. You can trust a man deep in his cups – shows he's not worried about what he'll say when the liquor loosens his lips.

"He spoke to Marlene about the pack." He's very quiet now, frowning something terrible.

"Oh aye?"

"She said – it was at one of the wakes, and he'd had a bit to drink – that he was trying to stop Sirius and Moody finding something out."

His hands are shaking now but I don't say anything to reassure him this time, cos Marlene were killed not long after the wake for Fenwick, and if Lupin let himself drink a little too much and say a little too much, then it didn't take long for 'im to fix it.

"I thought he meant a girlfriend; that he didn't want Sirius to tease him or Moody to say he was unprofessional." He whispers.

He stands quite abruptly, clears his throat. "He must have meant that," he says, decisively, voice louder now. "Ignore what I said won't you Dung? I'm being stupid, Remus wouldn't... it's just paranoia that's all."

He leaves soon afterwards, has a few errands to run, family to visit. He's barely touched his scotch.

* * *

**5\. Sirius Black**

Leaving the house is hard, but then everything has been recently. Soon I won't know where my best friend and his family live, maybe before I even round the corner. I'm not sure how long the charm takes, but I guess when I try to think of the house I've spent countless evenings in and I can't picture it, I'll know it's done. I'll know that I won't see Prongs again for months at least, won't have to charm Lily when she's pissed at me for letting Harry eat a whole chocolate frog, won't hold Harry. But they'll be safe.

Wormtail looked nervous as hell, but I guess it's not a charm anyone performs often, and when your friends are at risk you'll want to do it perfectly. He's better than he gives himself credit for though – better than we give him credit for in honesty. In recent months he's really proved to everyone why he was in Gryffindor in the first place – willing to take on missions he wouldn't have even a year ago, braver in battle. War changes people.

I apparate out of Godric's Hollow, arriving behind some tenements in Glasgow. I'm not entirely sure where to go next. I need to get into hiding of course, make sure I'm hard enough to find even as a decoy. Problem is, where's a good place to hide when the person after you has been one of your best mates since you were eleven? Fuck. I can't – no, I don't want to believe it. That I can believe it, that's the fucking problem. There's just too much pointing at him now. Not that Prongs and Lily believe it – they're still a bit pissed at me I think. Doesn't matter anyway – they saw the sense in having a decoy secret keeper as well as the real thing. And with only the four of us knowing it doesn't matter who the spy is. I hope they're right, of course I do. But –

It's not like it's just me. Lily was the one who first noticed it, as much as she downplays it now. But she was right, the first time he killed someone he was cold, callous even. And Prongs might be right; maybe it did hit him later. But if it did it took a while.

And Moody thought something was up too, thought he was adjusting too well to being part of a pack. Prongs and I were furious when he first said that – like, how dare Moody criticise him for being good at something we fucking needed him to be good at? But when he came back, with those god-awful marks across his face, he did seem different. He was angry; not that he ever loses his temper. It's scarier than that, more controlled, as if he's carefully weighing up the movement of every muscle, just enough to relieve the tension. And I could explain that away too – of course he'd be angry after months of being treated like he were worthless – but I'm not sure that's it. Because I know he lied. I've spent dozens of moons with him, and I know that he doesn't hurt himself when he's not trapped, when he's not alone. Someone did that to him, and he wants to protect them. Why?

I apparate again, the constricting pain of it causing me to retch as fall to my knees in a darkened field. A large barn shields me from view of a road and it takes me a moment to realise where I am. I've arrived at the apparition spot nearest Lyall Lupin's house, and clearly I need more deliberation and more focus on my destination because this is a seriously fucking stupid place for me to be. I spit to get rid of the taste of bile on my tongue and then push him from my mind. Another twist and I'm in London, Highgate cemetery to be exact, and far too close to my own family for comfort. For that reason perhaps I am safe here from him, for tonight at least.

I used to spend a lot of time here when I was a kid, hiding from the nanny and trying to scare Regulus with ghost stories. But now I know death too well for a grave to be frightening. There's something almost comforting in a grave – the knowledge that the body has a final place to rest. Caradoc didn't get that, and I didn't really understand how awful that was until I had somewhere to visit Benjy. He came with me the first few times; I thought he was being kind. Maybe he was.

Marlene died not long afterwards. He was first there; he found her, found her family. And not even weeks later the Prewetts got ambushed. And he was there again – him and Wormtail, Alice and Frank. Curses flying everywhere and he got away without a mark on him. And even then I didn't think much of it – he's unemployed so he's quick to respond, and he's a good fighter.

He's good at keeping secrets. And I've seen him lie his way out of trouble more times that I can count. And now we're in a war and he's good at spying. Good at killing. And when Dung said he'd have the most to gain, if he took Voldemort's promises at face value, I almost hit him. But he wasn't wrong. And he came back from the pack changed. Changed and hiding something. And he did speak to Marlene at Benjy's wake; I remember that much. And he was the first at her house. And the first to Fabian and Gideon. The only one to get away unscathed.

I'm frightened by how well he managed to blind me for so long. I lie down carefully between two overgrown graves, in this cemetery so close to my parent's house, and stare up at the sky. The moon is waxing, partially obscured by the leaves of the trees hanging above me and the thin shift of clouds. I wonder how much he has used the lycanthropy against me. I have always tried to reject my parent's prejudices, and since fifth year I have worked to prove to him that I am not my upbringing.

And in doing so I failed to suspect. And now Benjy is dead, and Marlene, and Caradoc, and Fabian, and Gideon, and others too. But not Prongs, and not Lily, and not Harry.

They are safe at... safe at... I can't remember where.

Good.

It's done.


End file.
